


Shadows of Holmes

by the_bonny_wordsmith



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - World War I, Crossover, Gen, Old Holmes, Old Watson, Spies, Temporary Amnesia, Thesis Fanfic, Treason, World War I, Young Holmes, Young Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 04:52:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5814970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_bonny_wordsmith/pseuds/the_bonny_wordsmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shot down in his aircraft and brought to hospital in 1917, Sherlock struggles to remember what he discovered about a case involving a powerful man named Moriarty who may be aiding the Nazis. John and Lestrade must work against the clock to bring back Sherlock's memories before Mycroft begins the Hundred Days Offensive. But danger is closer than it seems, and doctors and patients can't be trusted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Hospital

**Author's Note:**

> IMPORTANT  
> This fanfiction will eventually form half of my Honours thesis. It's currently a WIP, and I am keen to see what the fandom thinks of it. Please do note that comments may be referred to (correctly referenced) in my thesis - if you don't want this, please tell me in your comment :)

_Shadows – light… Shadows – light… Wind…water on my goggles…clouds…fire…_

“Sir? Doctor, he’s coming round. Wake up, sir.”

_Floating…no… flying – FALLING!_

The man in the bed lurched into consciousness as though his soul had been poured back into his body; gasping, straining, disorientated.

_AIR, AIR, AIR… Throat, blood, heartbeat. Pain. Fuzzy pain…morphine. Thudding head – concussion, bullets through the trapezius and deltoid, spine – pain, pain, PAIN!_

“Ah, good man; see to him, nurse.”

_Public school English accent but Irish born, well educated, doctor, nurse, out of danger. Perhaps. …why perhaps?_

“Yes, sir.” The nurse turned back to the blinking patient, gently trying to push him back into his pillows. “That’s it, just breathe.”

“What?” the patient was looking this way and that, straining to fight the dulling drug in his system, eyes darting over the beds, the men in them, the bloodstained bandages, nostrils flaring at the metallic stink not quite obscured by rubbing alcohol and antiseptic. _White beds, wounded men, alcohol – one hundred percent proof, antiseptic. Hospital. England. Burns victims, amputees, bullet wounds, paraplegics. War. Nurse. Grey. New, young, inefficient; leave._ He swayed forwards, dragging his body upright in the bed.

“No, now; please, sir – you’ve got to stay in bed.” The nurse turned back to the doctor, “He’s panicking, sir.”

 _Panicking?!_ “I can hear you, you know,” the patient snarled, pitching forwards into the nurse’s face and sending her back with a tiny scream.

The doctor lowered his clipboard and peered over his half-moon glasses with an interested expression. “Do you remember who you are?”

The patient’s head snapped towards him, piercing cold eyes like chips of pale green glass raking the man up and down a moment. _Smoker, smartly turned out – clinical, precise. But hairs on his trouser legs; dogs of some sort? Doesn’t add up. Married, but what kind of marriage? Detached, excellent at his job; surgical…but not a surgeon, why is that? Familiar…why?_ “Of course I do.”

“Might I trouble you for a name and address?” the doctor waved at his clipboard. “Paperwork, you know. Must be done, old chap.”

The patient rolled his eyes. “I am Sherlock Holmes of two hundred and twenty one B, Baker Street, London.”

The doctor’s eyebrows danced, his pen pausing mid-scrawl. “Odd, we seem to have you down as Flying Officer William Scott of 29 Squadron.”

Sherlock frowned.

“Not to matter, must be a mix up with the paperwork. There’s so much red tape nonsense to deal with. Do you remember what happened to you, Mr Holmes?”

Brows knitted over the pale eyes once more. _Important important, something important! Falling, but important – something before, before the fall._

The doctor smiled widely. “No matter, old boy. Do tell me when you remember – I’ll be very interested to hear what you have to say.” He moved away, initialling the bottom of the sheet J.M. The nurse followed, all too keen to escape her strange patient.

Sherlock lay back in the bed, his energy expended for the moment, eyes closed and hands clasped beneath his chin. Why was he here? What had happened? The morphine was pleasant when he was so drained, but it fogged his mind like the mists of London. He needed clarity. With supplies as they were, however, he was unlikely to receive much more of it. Sherlock sighed. _Good and bad._

A curl of nicotine-laden smoke wafted past his nose, derailing and clarifying his thoughts as he inhaled deeply. _One – no, two…two point three milligrams of nicotine…Chesterfields…_ His eyes snapped open, scanning his surrounds for the source.

An officer, his hair silvered beyond his years, stood across the ward by the end of his bed, drawing lazily on the cigarette in between light banter with a couple of blushing young nurses. _Tedious._ Sherlock’s eyes honed in on the distinctive lozenge shaped bulge in the man’s dressing gown pocket: a cigarette case. _But how to get it?_ He let his observation shift to the man himself who seemed to be in perfect health. The man turned in his direction and their eyes met, a strange expression crossing the officer’s face. _Lestrade!_

Lestrade snuck the flicker of a wink into his blink, his head tilting towards Sherlock’s left. Sherlock followed his indication to the next bed along. It was directly opposite his own, and occupied by a man about his own age with faded blond hair. _John!_

He lay atop his blankets, a book in his lap, but his eyes were on Sherlock. There didn’t seem to be much wrong with him either, but a pair of canes leant against the bedside cabinet. Their eyes locked for a moment. _Warning._

“Mr Lester, might I have a cigarette?”

_Ah. Disguise. Perhaps there is danger here after all._

Lestrade turned, the nurses drifting away as he murmured adieus, and glanced questioningly at the recumbent John.

“Didn’t know you smoked, mate.” He took out the silver case and popped it open, offering the row of white rolls. Their air of detached, neighbourly friendship was certainly convincing.

“I don’t, actually.” John took one, however, sliding his legs laboriously out of the bed, and taking up the canes, the cigarette tucked into the top pocket of his pyjamas.

Lestrade watched with a bystander’s curiosity, lighting up a cigarette for himself as John slowly hobbled across the ward to Sherlock, stopping by the end of his bed and hanging onto the white steel frame, panting a little.

“I’m Jack Walterson,” he said firmly, and stuck out a hand.

Sherlock shot his friend a shuttered glance of disbelief at the obviousness of his alias, but refrained from commenting. “Bullet, was it? Can I have that cigarette?”

John stifled a grin, and handed over the cigarette. “Yes. Pretty poor luck for a doctor to get shot in the leg though.” He laughed, but the merriment did not reach eyes, which remained watchful.

Sherlock was looking hard at the cigarette.

John’s eyes went to it too. “Ah. Geoff–” a packet of matches came sailing across the ward before he could finish, landing neatly in Sherlock’s lap. The two men glanced over to see Lestrade grinning from his bedside cabinet. “Ta.”

Sherlock struck a match and lit up, taking a long draw before slowly exhaling, eyes half-closed with hazy pleasure. A slight smile of satisfaction spread his lips. “Where are we?”

“Richbrook Hospital in Kent.”

“Anyone for a tipple?” Lestrade came over accompanied by a clinking of glassware, a mostly empty bottle of whisky in one pocket. He and John exchanged a glance and a nod. The rest of the patients were at the opposite end of the ward, separated from them by at least three empty beds.

Sherlock eyed the whiskey, and frowned. _Morphine, alcohol, nicotine…interesting mix._ “Very well.”

“Sherlock shouldn’t be mixing alcohol with the morphine,” John hissed.

“Go on, Jack!” Lestrade encouraged boisterously. “Don’t dawdle; if Matron catches us with this she’ll have our hides for not sharing it with her.” He clinked glasses with Sherlock.

They each took a deep draft.

John relented. “Just a little.”

Lestrade emptied the bottle into John’s glass, and stowed it back in his dressing gown. He glanced over his shoulder at the other patients, then leant in. “So, what’s the plan?”

Sherlock gazed bemusedly up at the other two. “Plan?”

John and Lestrade exchanged concerned glances. “To deal with Moriarty?” Lestrade prompted.

Sherlock frowned. _Mycroft, the Diogenes – a case. Moriarty. The Napoleon of Crime. Contacts in the Third Reich. Secret drops being made over Germany. Find out how. Innocuous items at the moment, brandy smuggling, stockings, and elastic. But if he turned to trading information about the war..._

“Please tell me you remember,” John added.

“Wait, you mean he wasn’t lying to the doctor before? He actually doesn’t know how he got here?”

“Shut up, both of you!” Sherlock snarled. He was pressing his hands to his temples, trying to force his brain to remember more. _Following the trail to the RAF. Sneaking in. Faces, names, going through lockers, watching the others at meal times. None of them are him, none of them work for him, so…?_ His thoughts dropped away, the prowess he was so used to summoning inaccessible. “I remember…pieces. Taking the case from Mycroft, infiltrating the RAF,” he strained his mind again, but to no avail. “But my mind’s not working as it should. I can’t make deductions!” He stared wild-eyed at his friends, horrified.

“Don’t worry – we can fill in the blanks,” Lestrade hurried to calm him.

“Just don’t push yourself too hard yet – you’ve been concussed for five days, things are bound to be a bit muddled.” Despite the words, John couldn’t help but shoot Lestrade an anxious glance. If Sherlock couldn’t remember – if he couldn’t regain his immense abilities, the fate of Britain didn’t bear thinking about.

Sherlock was having none of it, however. “What happened to me, John? I need to know!”

John sighed. “You disappeared without a trace three weeks ago. We tried to find you, but Mycroft wouldn’t let on anything until last week when he came to us with the news that you’d been shot down.”

_The choppy roar of the engine…a second plane behind – an Albatross D. III? Can’t be. Cloud cover…a glance back, surprise – why surprise – a face, but whose? A heart stopping rat-tat-tat, bullets hailing like rain, wood splinters flying, my body rupturing, bullets tearing their way through blood, flesh, and bone, and spinning, spinning, spinning, down and down, smoke in my nose, wind in my ears…flames…panic. The buckles not releasing. Must escape. Must tell. Must eject. Cold, water, soaking wet…water…water?_

Sherlock shook the water from his face, panting.

“Are you all right?” John’s voice was in his ears, a hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock blinked. Lestrade was staring at him, wide-eyed, an empty water jug in his hands, and John was beside him. “What happened?”

John and Lestrade exchanged a glance.

“You sort of…went into yourself,” John replied awkwardly. “Your eyes were open but it didn’t look like you were seeing us, and then you dropped the cigarette and the bed started to burn.”

Lestrade waved the water jug with a grin.

Sherlock shook his head, splattering them with water. “I…I remember. I remember being shot down – I remember the crash.”

“Do you remember anything else?” Lestrade asked eagerly.

Sherlock shook his head. “But the plane – it had been tampered with: I couldn’t eject. And it wasn’t Germans who shot me down. It was someone in one of our planes.”

The other two exchanged knowing glances, sitting in the chairs to either side of the bed. John handed Lestrade the day’s paper. “Read something out, just to be on the safe side.”

Lestrade nodded. “Right you are.”

“Mycroft helped us get in here to keep an eye on you,” John spoke softly under Lestrade’s proclamations of the results of the local cricket team’s match. “We suspected that Moriarty knew you were onto him, and he arranged to have you shot down.” John cleared his throat. “What you remember seems to corroborate such an explanation. Clearly his scheme didn’t go to plan.”

“Just as well for us,” Lestrade added sotto voce.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Or it did, and he wants me here for some reason.”

John frowned, and Lestrade even paused. “What could that be?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t know.”

John changed topic at the look on Sherlock’s face. “That doctor, he arrived the same day as you did.”

 _Interesting. Definitely not a coincidence…or is it?_ “What’s his name?”

“Doctor Murtagh.”

_Hm. Irish._

“What’s all this then?” a disapproving female voice interrupted Sherlock’s thoughts, and all three men jumped.

Matron stood by the end of Sherlock’s bed, staring disapprovingly down at the sopping bedclothes. Her hands went to her hips.

“I’m waiting for an explanation.” She eyed John and Lestrade severely.

“Ah…it was a little prank, Matron,” Lestrade explained feebly, earning a withering glance from Sherlock.

Matron tutted, but seemed satisfied with the reason. “Let’s get you out of there, Mr Holmes.”

“I can’t move my legs.”

John and Lestrade exchanged astonished glances. Sherlock had been aware of the fact since he woke up. Everything from the waist down was beyond his control, and it was infuriating.

“You sustained a deep bruise to your spine,” Matron replied briskly. “You’ll be able to walk again, just not at the moment. We’ll deal with that for now.” She turned and brandished an imperious hand at one of the nurses. “Nurse! Bring fresh bedding over. You two,” she rounded on John and Lestrade, “back to bed.”

 

In the evening, when the bed was crisp once more, and the ward was quiet, John and Lestrade came back over, bringing their supper trays and candles to make a picnic on Sherlock’s bed and the empty ones to either side. The rest of the ward was empty and darkened – one man had lost the struggle to live, and the other two had been transferred.

Sherlock’s tray of food remained untouched, and he lay flat on his back staring up at the ceiling as he had done the rest of the day, brooding. He couldn’t walk, he couldn’t remember what he’d learnt, if anything, and he couldn’t think. He was next to useless.

“Go away.”

John and Lestrade ignored the directive.

“Temporary memory loss isn’t uncommon in such cases, Sherlock,” John reminded him with irritating patience. He and Lestrade had decided on hopeful attitudes; it was too soon to despair yet. “Don’t forget, you were in a plane crash. Mycroft said you’d practically ploughed up an entire field. That’s not a knock you’re going to just recover from in an instant.”

“I know, John.”

“You were lucky you didn’t end up with severe burns,” Lestrade added helpfully between mouthfuls of calf’s foot jelly.

“I cut the straps of my harness and dragged myself out of the wreckage only to be blown across a field by the explosion of my shot down aircraft – that’s not luck, Graham.”

“Greg,” Lestrade corrected automatically, unperturbed. “And we can try and jog your memory in the meantime.”

Sherlock cast his eyes skywards.

Lestrade flourished his spoon, struck by inspiration. “Did you see who was piloting the aircraft that shot you down? It could give us a lead.”

Sherlock exploded upright, “Do you honestly think I haven’t already thought of that?! Do you think I’ve been lying here all day thinking about cricket results and _dinner_?” he brandished a disparaging hand at the meal. “I do not _need_ these reminders! I do not need cosseting. I need my mind back, I need my legs back, I need my memories back; I need to _work_!”

Lestrade ignored the outburst, taking Sherlock’s glass of port instead, and downing it in one. “Getting cross about it isn’t going to help solve the case.” They all knew he had a point. “So you might not be able to walk; it’s only temporary. With our help we can get you around the hospital instead of staying stuck in this bed all day. It might help you remember. And if Moriarty knows you survived, who’s to say he hasn’t sent someone along to finish the job?”

“What a revelation.” Sherlock sighed. “If Moriarty sent someone after me, why haven’t they already killed me? What was to stop them from giving me a lethal injection or smothering me when I was unconscious? It would certainly be easier than waiting until I woke up – they would have had no certainty that I’d forget what I found out. It doesn’t add up. There’s something else happening here, some other game being played, and I can’t even see the pieces, let alone the board.” He pressed his lips together, eyes fixed on a boiled swede without really seeing it.

“But you do think it was Moriarty who made sure you were shot down?” John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “As certain as I can be in the circumstances. We can’t leap to conclusions about any of this; I don’t have all the facts.”

“What led you to the RAF?” John prompted.

“The items were being dropped inland. Mycroft’s spies in Germany reported the sudden appearance of items in places where people shouldn’t have had access to such things. There was no pattern to them: they weren’t near any estuaries or along the coast – so that ruled out the Navy. But they always appeared after RAF raids. They’re too big to smuggle, or use a carrier pigeon for, but the air is the only way they can get that far into enemy territory.” Sherlock slowly walked his way through the winding paths of his old deductions, the trail slowly illuminating as he went. “So the RAF were the only way that the drops could be made. Lone aircraft would be spotted and shot down by German gunners, but in groups doing raids with professional pilots, they’re likely to get through. It’s the same principle of fish spawning – do it simultaneously in large enough quantities, and some are bound to get through.”

“What, so do you think we have Nazi sympathisers in the RAF? Or German spies?” Lestrade was appalled.

Sherlock waved an impatient hand to silence him, still deep in his thoughts, trying to uncover his memories. “The RAF were doing the drops, but how… How?! You can’t have that many pilots who are quislings – too many drops were being made. So what? The pilots didn’t know. Then how are the drops made?” Sherlock rocked back and forth, his fingers pressed to his temples, willing his brain to make the connection.

Lestrade proffered the cigarette case. Sherlock took three, and lit them up simultaneously. In the guttering light of the candles he appeared quite ghostly, his angled features wreathed in smoke and strangely lit.

John and Lestrade watched as he puffed, inhaling the smoke deeply, mind straining, eyes screwed shut.

Then, “ _Yes!_ ” Sherlock’s eyes flew open, success glinting madly in them. “Yes, of course!” He brandished the cigarettes at his friends. “None of the pilots knew about the drops. But what are they doing when the drops happen? Bombing the enemy. So how do you disguise a package you want dropped over Germany?”

John and Lestrade stared at each other wide-eyed with the genius of the realisation. Sherlock smiled widely at them, sucking on the cigarettes again.

“Dummy bombs,” John muttered.

“The devilish cunning of it!” Lestrade hissed.

“Ah, but it’s more than that,” Sherlock drew their attention once more. “With the pilots unaware, someone else has to know. The men loading the planes – perhaps. A commander – more likely…”

A heavy silence fell over the trio.

“Do you think they know what they’re transporting?” Lestrade was frowning; the thought of high ranking traitors was not pleasant.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Moriarty has connections, and influence – many do not know him for who he truly is. He is a spider, sitting in his web, controlling the strings; but none can reach him. He is always three steps ahead, and four people removed. He has people in Lloyd George’s office, and people in the King’s court – he is not a person to be trifled with. He’s profiting from the War like no other, and not merely from our side. It is not improbable that he should have commanders in his pocket, especially if he rewards them handsomely with brandy and cigars and whatever other luxuries they can’t get through ordinary means in wartime. But which one?

“I infiltrated 29 Squadron as Flying Officer William Scott, they have a lot of flying aces, all of whom are too patriotic to turn traitor on their own country, but they are perfect for getting cargo exactly where Moriarty wants it. So the dummy bombs would need to be loaded into their aircrafts. But they can’t simply be dropped anywhere over Germany, otherwise Moriarty’s clients wouldn’t receive the goods. So specific locations need to be given to the commanders, who would select the airmen and ensure the correct bombs were loaded.” Sherlock wracked his brains for who the commander might be. The cigarettes were all but ash, but he took another pull on them anyway.

“Don’t push yourself too hard, Sherlock,” John warned, seeing what the consulting detective was trying to do. “You’ve remembered a lot – more than we could have hoped for this early on. I can call Mycroft with a coded message in the morning.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to make a retort, but prevented from doing so as the doors banged open.

Sherlock stuffed the cigarette butts into his still full cup of beef tea as Lestrade dashed across the ward with the trays while John hobbled his fastest, and both leapt into bed as the lights came on.

They watched as a man was brought in on a stretcher, his head swathed in bandages. He had already been changed into pyjamas, and once the men had settled him on the bed, he remained silent as though asleep or drugged.

“Poor blighter,” Lestrade muttered.

The lights went out once more, and there were just the three candles glowing against the blackout.

John and Lestrade showed signs of wanting to come back over, but Sherlock shook his head, his eyes fixed on the newcomer, frowning hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This fic is for my thesis. YAY. HOW COOL IS IT THAT I GET TO WRITE FANFICTION FOR MY THESIS?! 8D  
> That said, it is even more important that people do not plaigiarise this. The characters aren't mine, of course, and elements of the ideas aren't where I've interwoven things from the books and TV show, but the plot and words are mine, and a version of it will be graded, so please respect that.
> 
> And now on to interesting things :)  
> My aim with this fic is essentially to tie together elements of ACD's Holmes with the BBC's Sherlock. Obviously it's much more Sherlock heavy than Holmes, as most of what I've done with Holmes is in the final sort of epilogue where it flashes forwards to the future for the ending. The two are quite different in style and tone, and I'm curious to see whether this jars for anyone. I'm still trying to figure out how to manage this, as I'd ideally like the piece to be a kind of ACD x BBC crossover, but without it seeming off-putting.  
> I've tried to incorporate elements from the Reichenbach fall and Scandal, because yay for fandom references, even though (unless I'm EXTREMELY lucky and have an examiner who is in the fandom) most of them, if not all, will probably go over their head. Which is kind of a shame, given that that's one of the exciting parts of fanfic.
> 
> All thoughts, suggestions, questions, etc. are extremely welcome - I'd really love to hear them! :)  
> Also, again, if you don't want your comments mentioned in my thesis, please do tell me :)
> 
> [SORT OF SPOILERS FOR THOSE WHO HAVEN'T SEEN THE CHRISTMAS SPECIAL]  
> On a personal note, I find it extremely interesting how, in some ways, it kind of parallels the Christmas Special. I wrote this several months before it was released, so the similarities are amusing.
> 
> [SPOILERS OVER]
> 
> So, thanks heaps for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! :D
> 
>  
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment :)
> 
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, you can Like my Facebook page, and Follow my Twitter or Tumblr :)  
> https://www.facebook.com/josephinetomkinsauthor  
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	2. The Game is Afoot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, John, and Lestrade begin to figure things out, but they're not the only side that's setting up the pieces to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT  
> This fanfiction will eventually form half of my Honours thesis. It's currently a WIP, and I am keen to see what the fandom thinks of it. Please do note that comments may be referred to (correctly referenced) in my thesis - if you don't want this, please tell me in your comment :)

Sherlock insisted on being wheeled out into the garden before he would talk. Matron had wrapped his legs in a blanket, brooking no protest, and they had found a secluded spot with a bench. Lestrade provided cigarettes and a tot of rum each, but was the only one drinking.

“Has there been any indication that Moriarty is dropping other, more important things?” John asked quietly.

Sherlock shook his head. “Mycroft was very cagey about it when we spoke. If there _is_ a leak in the war office he’d hardly want to broadcast it. But no, at present I think it may be safe to assume Moriarty is yet to–”

Lestrade cleared his throat pointedly, and they fell silent as a nurse approached.

“Mr Walterson, erm, there’s a visitor for you.”

The three men leant forwards, curious to see who their intruder was. The thought that it might be Moriarty darted through all their minds, and John wished longingly that he hadn’t left his service revolver in the drawer of his bedside cabinet.

The nurse scurried away as the figure advanced through the greenery, a rolled up umbrella in hand.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Mycroft! What the deuce are you doing here?”

The elder Holmes brother swept aside the waxy leaved branch of a camellia that threatened to knock off his bowler hat, and smiled insincerely. “I am here to see that my little brother is convalescing well, as any sibling might.”

“Sentiment doesn’t suit you, Mycroft – even the pretence of it. Why are you here?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but let the matter pass. “I received John’s message this morning and came to see you directly. Anything transmitted via the telephone can be overheard, and codes can be broken.” He dusted the bench with a fastidious flick of his handkerchief, and sat. “We are close to winning the war, Sherlock. There is an operation being planned – the Hundred Days Offensive. If any word of it gets out, if there is the slightest leak of our details, our armies will be crushed by the Alliance, and it may well mean the end of the free world as we know it.”

“Then protect your information better.”

Mycroft turned a gimlet eye upon his brother. “We need Moriarty dealt with. He is a concern we cannot have hanging over our heads when this plan is put into operation.”

The two brothers stared at one another for a long time. “And what if I don’t remember in time?”

“There can be no ‘what ifs’ in this, brother mine. You must remember.”

“By when?”

“The end of the month. No later.”

John’s eyes widened. “But, Mycroft, it’s not even a week until August! How can you possibly expect Sherlock to remember it all in a few days?”

Mycroft smiled tightly, genuinely. “Because he’s Sherlock Holmes,” he eyed his brother with a fierce expression that hinted at pride, “that’s what he does.” Then he sighed. “And if he doesn’t, and if Moriarty does leak information to the Alliance, then may God have mercy on our souls, because the Germans certainly won’t.”

A heavy silence fell over them.

Mycroft stood, straightening his suit. “It may interest you to know that one Colonel Sebastian Moran was transferred to your ward last night under the alias of Private Shadwell Mohan.”

The name darted through Sherlock’s mind like a bullet shot from the rifle of that very man, precise and tearing its way to his memories, understanding burning up in its wake.

Mycroft turned to meet Sherlock’s eye and received the faintest flicker of acknowledgement. “Make good use of the information.” He turned to Lestrade and John. “I need hardly add that if a word of this is repeated beyond this meeting, you will live to regret doing so for a long time.”

The pair nodded seriously, Lestrade swallowing a little.

They watched Mycroft depart, then turned back to Sherlock. The consulting detective was leaning back in the sun, his eyes closed, palms clasped beneath his chin. The last of the morphine had cleared his system in the night, and he had found one of his pipes in his bedside cabinet with a plug of tobacco. Neither pipe nor tobacco were ideally suited to his task, but they were better than cigarettes.

He lit up, puffing, John and Lestrade watching him.

“What did Mycroft mean, about that last bit?”

 _The rat-tat-tat of the gun – has the pilot gone mad? Turning to look, and Moran, Colonel Sebastian Moran at the end of a rifle. Shaved of his beard and moustache, but him all the same._ Sherlock glanced at him, and smiled. “Moriarty knows I’m on the case. That man is clever – perhaps as clever as me, and even a master of crime will get bored. When I was shot down I was in the middle of setting a trap with myself as the bait. Clearly he anticipated me. He knows I’m here, and he will come. The very fact that I am still alive is proof. Sebastian Moran is his hired killer – one of the best shots in the army, until he was dishonourably discharged. He was the pilot that shot me down. Moriarty is setting up the board to play.”

John and Lestrade started with dismay at the revelation.

“And whose says this Colonel Moran hasn’t been told to just kill you?” Lestrade argued.

“I do, Inspector. Moriarty is simply manoeuvring his pieces into position. And we must too. He is close to being ready, and he will come. It is merely a matter of when. I need to meet all of the hospital staff and patients, I need to eliminate them from my investigation, and I need to be ready before he comes.”

John and Lestrade exchanged a long look. Sherlock was either brilliant or insane. Probably both.

Lestrade sighed deeply, downing the rest of the rum. “God knows I’m going to regret this,” he muttered, “but I’m in.”

John nodded firmly. “And I am as well.”

Sherlock grinned. “Let’s catch ourselves a master criminal.”

They got up, Lestrade pushing Sherlock’s wheelchair, and John marching alongside. His canes remained forgotten by the bench.

 

The staff interviews did not take long. Under the guise of getting lost, or asking after food, they made their way round the various nurses, doctors, and patients. Most Sherlock did not even deign to speak to, analysing and discounting them within a minute and moving onto the next, his glee mounting as his skills continued to return. Those that they did speak to often ended up being affronted, with Lestrade quickly wheeling Sherlock away as John apologised and cited Sherlock’s accident as the cause of his rudeness.

By lunch time they had spoken to everyone except the mysterious Doctor Murtagh, and the unmasked Colonel Moran, who appeared to remain in his comatose condition. Sherlock had stared at him for a long while, waiting perhaps for a break in his façade, but there was little to be discerned beneath the bandages covering his face apart from a single closed eye.

Matron had been able to shed a little light on the doctor, however, Sherlock showing an unexpected ability to charm the woman over tiny glasses of sherry in her office.

“How well do you know Doctor Murtagh?” Sherlock asked ingenuously, pouring a generous measure of sherry into Matron’s glass.

“Oh, Jacob? He arrived with you, don’t you remember? He’s a doctor at the cottage hospital you were first brought to. He found you when you first crashed – absolutely devoted to your recovery.”

Sherlock frowned, glancing over at John and Lestrade. _Not normal. But if it’s Moriarty, what’s he playing at being so obvious? Does the man_ want _to be caught?_

“He’s a very nice man,” Matron continued, more than a little tipsy now. “He’s the one who got me this sherry, you know.” She slopped a little over the rim of the glass and giggled. “Said he was going to see about some herbs for me to use on my bad hip while he’s out today,” she patted the offending joint, “kind man. Cold eyes though.”

 _Cold heart._ “Thank you, Matron,” Sherlock gave her hand a pat.

 

Out in the corridor, the trio conferred.

“Are you sure you don’t just remember him from when he found you?” Lestrade asked for the second time. “You would have been delirious at the time, remember.”

Sherlock’s gaze was adamant. “It’s not that. He doesn’t add up. There’s something wrong about him – left of centre. The eyes, the dog hair, the marriage. Coming all this way to follow a single patient he has no connection to. No doctor shows that kind of care for no reason – and especially not in wartime.” He shook his head. “Let’s go.”

“Murtagh is still suspicious,” John said determinedly. “Even if he really is just a country doctor who really is concerned for Sherlock, he spent a strange amount of time watching over Sherlock when he was unconscious. He as most anxious to be there when you woke up.”

Sherlock frowned, thinking, then turned to John. “Do you have access to a gun?”

John frowned. “Yes. I have my service revolver in my bedside cabinet. Why do you ask?”

“It can be good to have a gun around.” He rattled the wicker of the wheelchair imperiously. “Back to the ward, Lestrade.”

 

Sherlock spent the rest of the day craning his neck every time the door opened, eager to speak to Murtagh the moment he returned. John and Lestrade tried distracting him, but were more often than not repulsed with orders to keep eyes out for the doctor and to watch Moran in the event that he woke up.

The day ticked past until the nurses came to put the blackouts up. Supper was served and cleared away, and in the darkness John and Lestrade reconciled themselves to furthering their investigations the next day, anxiously crossing off one of their four days left until August.

Sherlock was not so easily satisfied, however, and lay awake, eyes on the ceiling as the breathing of his companions across the ward slowed as they fell asleep.

He waited an extra half hour to ensure they were asleep, before dragging himself upright.

Lestrade had left the wheelchair next to his bed, and with a bit of difficulty he managed to manoeuvre himself over the edge and onto the seat with minimum creaking from the wickerwork, pushing himself determinedly up the ward and out the door towards Murtagh’s office. They had tried the door earlier in the day, only to find it locked, and breaking in hadn’t been an option in daylight. Something would be there. Something _had_ to be there.

He had filched various items from the hospital during their interviews, anticipating their need, and he tackled the lock, wiggling and twisting until the tumblers eventually fell into place, and the door swung open.

 

John shifted in bed, frowning. Hushed voices came to him from across the ward, muddling him and mixing into disturbed dreams through which Nazis and criminal masterminds ran, chased by Sherlock through flickering scenery like a rotating pantomime backdrop. Bombs rained from the sky, blowing craters into the countryside and aeroplanes ploughed furrows large enough for cottages into meadows, and Sherlock ran through it all, unscathed until a faceless figure loomed – Moriarty – and then Sherlock was falling, and all he could do was watch.

“They haven’t had a chance to speak to me yet, but they’re observant – something’s got them on alert,” the gravelly brogue helped John surface from the nightmare, shaking his head to clear it. A voice as rough as that was sobering, and very much the stuff of reality. He very much hoped Sherlock hadn’t decided to interrogate Moran now that he seemed to be awake.

“…Holmes a threat?” the quiet Irish voice was vaguely familiar, and unexpected.

John’s ears pricked up at the mention of Sherlock’s name. He blinked his eyes harder, trying to clear the sleep from his eyes and the dreams from his mind, reaching for a glass of water. A shadow shifted at the end of the ward, and he paused.

“Not yet,” replied the first.

John strained his ears and eyes. With the blackouts up it was like trying to see the bottom of a vat of tar. Doubtless Sherlock would have known who they were – if only he could wake him without drawing the attention of the other two…

“And his friends?” the smoother voice had the overture of a sneer.

“They’ve been busy. Investigating.”

“Keep watching them. I want no loose ends. If they start getting close, you have your orders.”

“Yes, sir. No loose ends.”

John squinted across the ward to Sherlock’s bed. A tiny chink where the bottom of the blackout fitted against the mullion windows let in the faintest sliver of moonlight, just enough for him to see that the bed was empty.

His heartbeat increasing, John turned his attention back to the other end of the ward where the voices seemed to have stopped. Light footsteps and the creak and click of a door closing came to him, and then the slither of sheets as Moran lay back in bed.

Where was Sherlock? Was he embroiled with Moriarty already? No, he couldn’t be. The quiet Irish voice had to be the crime lord. But did that mean Doctor Murtagh was innocent?

Even more disturbed now than he had been when he awoke, John settled back into his pillows as silently as possible. It would not do for Moran to know that he had heard the exchange between him and his mysterious visitor.

 

In Murtagh’s office, Sherlock gasped, surfacing from the flood of memories returned to him.

He stared down at the photograph sitting on the desk of the bare office. It was an innocuous object, to some, a black and white photograph, with a man standing to either side of the woman in the centre. Sherlock knew that but for the greyscale of the image, her lips would be scarlet. The Woman. She knew what people liked – she had known what the commander to her right liked, and whether by seductive persuasion or underhand blackmail with photographs Sherlock knew would be scandalous to a damning degree, he had been Moriarty’s way into the RAF with his dummy bombs. To Irene’s left and a little behind her, one large hand resting on her shoulder, was Colonel Moran. Present ostensibly as her protection, but really as her minder.

The discovery had been a blow at the time, and was no less so now. He had hoped Irene might have extracted herself from Moriarty’s clutches, but it seemed that his webs were not so easy to throw off. His faculties and memories fully restored to him now, Sherlock cast his eyes about the room, clearing the dust from his mind.

Murtagh – or Moriarty as he now knew him to be – had imprinted little of himself on the room. He had left some few items which further confirmed the contrariness of his alias; nothing that would alert the average observer, but which to Sherlock were as plain as a note. They did not interest Sherlock, however.

The photograph had not been the only thing left for him. A single piece of paper that had been folded down the middle stood upright like a place card in the middle of the desk with the words ‘I Owe You’. The letters had been written so that they tumbled down the page, and Sherlock knew it was Moriarty’s first move in the game. It was time for him to make a return.

 

“Mr Holmes, how are we feeling today?”

Sherlock gazed implacably over his breakfast at Doctor Murtagh. “More mobile.” It was true, levering himself back into bed after concluding his search, he had regained a little feeling in his legs – enough to move his toes, though it had done him little good.

“Ah yes, Matron told me you had made some friends,” Murtagh smiled indulgently at him as one would a precocious child. “You were getting under everyone’s feet in my absence.” The cold glitter in his eyes belied the sweetened tone.

“Yes, wheelchairs are marvellous contraptions, provided you have someone to push you.” Sherlock glanced over at Lestrade. The inspector was watching the exchange covertly over his toast. John was still asleep. “I’ve been regaining some of my memory, too,” he added blandly, eyes fixed on Murtagh’s.

The doctor’s cloying manner flickered faintly. “Well that’s excellent news! I was very worried when I found you that you might not remember anything at all.”

Sherlock gave a disconcertingly wide smile. “Just as well I do. You’ll be able to return to your usual duties at your own hospital.”

“Oh no,” Murtagh waggled a finger, “no, it wouldn’t be right for me to leave before I knew you were safe to leave my care.”

“Dedicated of you.”

“It’s an axiom of mine. I never leave a job unfinished. It’s not tidy. Loose ends bother me.”

Across the ward John catapulted upright in bed. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock shot a glare at Lestrade to shut the man up. “They bother me as well,” he added, “especially when matters don’t add up. Obvious problems attract attention. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Indeed. But there’s always a way to tidy things and square them off.”

John was refusing to be calmed by Lestrade behind Murtagh’s back, hissing urgently at him in whispers too soft for Sherlock to make out. Reading his lips made the message clear, however. _Got to tell Sherlock. Moran had a visitor last night. An_ Irish _visitor. Moriarty’s here, Lestrade! He’s here! Sherlock’s in danger!_ The pair of them turned to stare at Sherlock, Lestrade’s expression a mixture of astonishment and fear, and John’s urgent.

Sherlock nodded very slightly, turning his attention back to Murtagh. “I quite agree.”

In the far corner of the ward, Moran was sitting up in bed. He was on a liquid ration as the bandages made anything else difficult to eat, and a supply of straws had been provided. His unobscured eye was sharp, however, and fixed on John’s lips as he wrote out something in a little black book in his lap.

Doctor Murtagh shifted closer to Sherlock, an eagerness in his posture that he was unable to repress. “What is it that you can remember? At these early stages even the smallest details are important improvements.”

Sherlock met his eyes, his own alight. “A fall.”

 

After Murtagh had left, Lestrade nonchalantly wandered over to Moran’s bed, a bottle of whiskey in his pocket. John made a beeline for Sherlock, who had lit up the entirety of the rest of Lestrade’s cigarettes having run out of tobacco, his clasped palms beneath his chin as a thick blueish smog gathered about his head.

“Whatever you’re planning, don’t do it.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John’s abruptness.

“I know you’re planning something – something stupid probably, because that’s what you’re like – but I won’t let you do it. Friends don’t let each other do stupid things alone. So you’ll have to bring me with you. And Lestrade. He’s said so too. It’s all of us, or none at all.” John was breathing hard, serious and tense with emotion.

Sherlock sat up, fitting four cigarettes between the index and middle fingers of each hand, genuinely surprised at the outburst of sentiment. “John, just what do you think I’m about to do exactly?”

“Besides something stupid? I don’t know exactly, but I know that face. You’re plotting something – you’re back, it’s the face you made before you disappeared from Baker Street at the start of this fiasco.”

Sherlock laid a calming hand on John’s shoulder. “I’m trying to remember, John. I’m trying to guess what Moriarty will do supposing I did find out about him before the crash. You’re my friend, John. Would I lie to you?”

“Yes. You do. Frequently.”

Sherlock sighed impatiently, his sincerity interrupted. “Would I lie to you about this?”

John frowned at him. “If you remember – you tell us. And we’ll go into battle side by side. You need us. Friends guard each other’s backs from the enemy, and you can’t take on Moriarty alone. It’s not safe.”

“And friends also give bad tempered grouches like you all their cigarettes,” added Lestrade, coming up on the other side with a grin.

Sherlock glanced towards Moran’s bed questioningly, but Lestrade anticipated him.

“I bribed Matron to wheel him out of the ward for a while. Nasty piece of work that man, but he could hardly stand up and protest without giving himself away.”

Sherlock grinned. “I’ll bet he loved that.”

“Over the moon.” Lestrade grinned, but his levity lasted only a moment. “Look, personally, I think you’re bonkers taking on this Moriarty chap. But maybe that’s because only you can do it; maybe only you are smart enough and stupid enough to be able to. But it doesn’t mean you have to do it alone. If we can help – if we can stand by you, and do anything at all that might tip the balance, we’ll be glad to risk our lives for the cause.” He put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “You are a great man, although goodness knows you don’t need your head to get any bigger, and I think, under all your snide comments and coldness, you’re a good one too.” He smiled.

John nodded. “So you see, you’re not getting rid of us.”

Sherlock stared at the two men standing on either side of his bed, knowingly giving their lives into his care, for once rendered speechless. He collected himself however, and rolled his eyes theatrically.

 


	3. The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock must make a decision that will affect the future of the free world, and John must witness more than one kind of fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT  
> This fanfiction will eventually form half of my Honours thesis. It's currently a WIP, and I am keen to see what the fandom thinks of it. Please do note that comments may be referred to (correctly referenced) in my thesis - if you don't want this, please tell me in your comment :)

Sherlock spent the rest of the day preparing. He was touched by the speeches John and Lestrade had made, but they did not change his plans. Overnight a little more mobility had returned to his lower half, and by the end of the day he was able to get out of bed and cross the ward to John without assistance. He had inherited John’s spare canes, much to his distaste, but they were necessary encumbrances until his full strength and control returned.

He could tell the others were watching him closely for signs of sneaking off to be “unnecessarily heroic” as Lestrade had put it. Trips to the bathroom became arduous affairs, as one of them always accompanied him, even when a nurse was already in attendance to push the wheelchair, and everything he did fell under their scrutiny. Not that they would garner much from their observations. Their loyalty was something he hadn’t accounted for during his planning in the nicotine haze, however, but a pilfered syringe of morphine and a few drops into their drinks at supper would see they didn’t do anything unnecessarily heroic either. The watchful Moran would be taken care of as well – a whisper in Matron’s ear had seen to it.

 

When evening finally came round Sherlock served the drinks from a decanter he had charmed off Matron, the morphine already at the bottom of John and Lestrade’s glasses. It was a slight dosage, but enough to send them sound asleep, and prevent them from waking when he left.

“To illicit brandy!” Lestrade held his glass up.

“To bent coast guards,” John added.

They downed the glasses.

John frowned. “Funny tasting stuff.”

“It’s the frogs – they’ve probably palmed us off with the poor stuff,” Lestrade replied, refilling his glass anyway. “To the King!”

The toasts continued, growing increasingly extravagant.

“To Lloyd George!” “To the Queen!” “To the boys at the front line!” “To comradeship!” “To hospitals!” “To Matron!” “To Sherlock!”

“Sh-shouldn’t you be againssht this short of thing though?” John queried, peering with great difficulty at the nearly empty decanter. “I mean, you’re an insshpector.”

Lestrade raised his eyebrows at John, and tapped the side of his nose, missing the end slightly. “What you don’t know, they don’t know.” He winked emphatically.

John paused halfway through a nod of agreement. “Wait…what?”

Lestrade sloshed another measure into his glass. “I shaid, what you don’t know, they don’t know, you know?”

John made to shake his head, then stopped, putting a hand to his forehead. “I’m feeling light headed.”

Lestrade laughed silently as John flopped backwards into his pillows, unconscious. “Can’t hold hish liquor,” he slurred to Sherlock, hiccupping as he too slowly subsided into his blankets.

Sherlock pushed the snoring men into as comfortable a position as was possible under the circumstances, thankful that the supper things had been cleared away long ago. Even nurses would ask questions about pie-eyed patients. He himself was far from sober, but he had stopped before the alcohol incapacitated his faculties. He would need his wits about him, even if he needed his body to be relaxed.

He slipped John’s revolver under his pillow, fitting his friend’s relaxed hand around the grip, checking the pocket watch he had snaffled from Lestrade before wadding it with a cloth and pushing it under too, his note leaning against the water jug.

He glanced over at Moran, who was in a similar state, having succumbed to the morphine long before John or Lestrade. All was well.

Blowing out the candles, Sherlock got back into his wheelchair, and made his way to the end of the ward, rolling along the corridor towards the stairs that would take him to the roof.

 

It took a long time to get up the stairs. A painful time. Even with John’s canes the process was onerous, and the alcohol in his system made his head spin. Eventually, however, he was out on the roof.

The night air was cold, cutting through his thick blue dressing gown, and the stars were bright against the black sky. Moonlight bathed the sandstone battlements of the old building, shadows striking between the illuminated crenellations, and he was glad there was no tell-tale hum of invading enemy aircraft on the wind. With the moon as bright as it was now Britain made easy pickings.

“You couldn’t face death sober, Mr Holmes? I expected more of you.” Doctor Murtagh slid out from a shadow, the English accent dropped, his kindly air discarded, Moriarty once more.

“Well, you know how it is; thinking about your own mortality can put a dampener on the evening.” Sherlock struggled to righten his posture. His muscles were screaming from the stairs, and he knew that the spinal injury could cause them to simply give out beneath him at any moment.

Moriarty regarded him coldly, dark eyes glittering, reflecting the thousands of pinpoints of starlight without any of their beauty. “The great Sherlock Holmes. The world’s only consulting detective. Not for much longer, I’m afraid.”

“What makes you so sure? I survived you once. A second time will be easy.”

Moriarty chuckled humourlessly. “Dumb luck.”

Sherlock shrugged. “That’s all you know. It’s a tricky thing, shooting a moving target from an aeroplane – even for someone like Moran.”

“Oh ho! So you guessed it was Moran, well done.”

“I remembered,” Sherlock half lied.

Moriarty hummed. “Very well, I’ll give you that. But it took a little help from me for you to remember what you found out, didn’t it.” He pulled an envelope from his pocket, opening it and flicking through the photographs inside with a critical expression. “Very inventive, Ms Adler. When she puts her mind to it.” He smiled widely at Sherlock. “She needed a bit of cajoling to begin with.”

“I know.”

“Liar.” Moriarty’s eyes narrowed, scanning Sherlock minutely, and then he laughed. “You played my little game so well, picking up on the clues and inconsistencies. Even if you did need the occasional nudge in the right direction – I must say you became quite dull after that knock to the head. I’d hoped you’d forget things, but it made you quite, quite ordinary. Boring.” Moriarty shook his head as though he was a disappointed parent. Then he seemed to cheer up again. “You played the game with the RAF very well. Although you certainly took your time about it. I wanted to put you to the test with it – to see whether the great Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective was all people said he was. All you thought you were. Consulting criminal, consulting detective; I thought we’d have a fun game to play between the two of us. You just got a little too close. It’s a shame,” he pouted making a mockery of the expression, “we could have had so much fun.” Moriarty sighed heavily. “And now it’s time to finish the game.”

“The war documents. Do you have any?”

Moriarty laughed loudly at that, his voice echoing off the stone. “Do you really think I would tell you? You disappoint me, Sherlock. Wound me. After all the trouble I went to! Digging out Ms Adler, getting the bombs in, drawing you into the RAF, getting Moran in there. And you won’t even do me the courtesy of figuring that much out for yourself.”

 _Confident. Over-confident. But he’s always over confident. So is it the truth, or a bluff, or a double bluff?_ Sherlock darted forwards, reaching into Moriarty’s coat, feeling for the bulge of his other pocket, and drawing out a thick notebook.

Moriarty nodded and smiled, allowing him to do so, unresisting. “You’ll be needing that later.”

Sherlock turned the face of the book towards the moon, and the silver stamped crest of the Third Reich gleamed on its surface. He flicked through the pages. Every detail of the operation was in there – the dummy bombs, the Squadron, the commander involved, the drop locations and dates. But no hint of any war plans. “I suppose your mother never told you not to play with your food.”

“I have never been very good at doing what I’m told. Quite the reverse, in fact. Getting Moran in here was easier, of course. But I needed someone to keep an eye on you – and your friends. I have to say, Doctor Watson and Inspector Lestrade are very loyal.”

Sherlock’s expression remained impassive, although his eyes widened very slightly.

Moriarty chuckled. “Your friends are quite safe in the Colonel’s care, and don’t concern yourself about the morphine that ridiculous Matron was going to give him. Moran’s quite the actor.” There was no lie in Moriarty’s eyes.

Sherlock felt his pulse increase, but took a deep breath, his hand twitching very slightly.

“Ah! Don’t get any ideas about trying to save them now. It wouldn’t do to go rushing down and startle Moran. He has a tendency to react badly to surprises. He’d be doing you a favour, of course. Friends are such an unreliable commodity. They open you up to sentiment – compromise you. I had never believed you capable of that kind of foolishness. Everything else, certainly, but not that.”

Sherlock glared at Moriarty. “Spit it out then. What do you want me to do?”

“Oh, I’d always planned a fall for you, Sherlock. It’s nice and dramatic – rather like you.” He moved towards the edge of the parapet, glancing down, then whistled softly. “Long drop.”

Sherlock made his way over, discarding the canes, and glancing over the edge. The distance did indeed appear much greater from the roof than it did from the ground. But he had made a plan, and he had to stick to it. “If I jump, do you promise John and Lestrade will be safe?”

“You have my word as a gentleman. They’re of no real interest to me. They can go back to their boring little lives, and they’ll forget about you. You won’t be remembered in history for anything – traitors never are.” He tapped the notebook Sherlock still held. “I should put that in my pocket if I were you.”

Sherlock nodded.

 

Moonlight puddled on the bedclothes and dappled the faces of the sleeping men. Moran silently slipped from his bed, moving along the wall barefoot, taking down the blackouts in order to see the moment when the consulting detective’s body hit the ground in confirmation that their job there was done.

He paused, regarding the sleeping men with distaste. This kind of close range work wasn’t really his metier. A rifle set up at one hundred yards was better. Cleaner. Still, the job had to be done.

He checked the time. Fifteen past two. Six minutes yet.

 

“To begin with I had high expectations for you. People said you were clever. Extraordinary. Perhaps a worthy opponent for me. Certainly a distraction. But you’re not anymore because I’ve beaten you, beaten you as easily as I beat any other ordinary person. You’re boring.”

Sherlock twitched, still gazing down over the edge. “You did this because you were bored?”

“Of course! Don’t be so foolish, Sherlock.” Moriarty laughed, and leant in close. “I know you did too. You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it. Boredom is the death of men like us. Or should I say, men like you?”

 

John was deep in opiate-jumbled dreams. Moriarty and Sherlock revolved on a rooftop while he and Lestrade sang, rowing a boat on a river of brandy. Everything was rippling like the waves of a desert heat haze, the colours and images bleeding into each other.

His head was ringing fit to burst, as though a tiny alarm clock had been put in his ear. He frowned, irritated.

The ringing kept on going, insistent, but muffled, a steady ticking beneath it.

John shifted, burying his face further into his pillow, and was poked in the eye by something very hard.

He started awake, and slowly became aware of the familiar metal shape his hand was wrapped around beneath the pillow. He’d poked himself in the eye with the muzzle of his own gun. Shock was followed by profound relief that he hadn’t accidentally pulled the trigger, a new thought chasing on the heels of the realisation. He hadn’t left his gun beneath his pillow. _Sherlock!_

The ringing of the pocket watch had mercifully stopped, although an echo of its muffled bell continued to irritate his alcohol swamped mind. John blinked very slowly and deliberately, his mouth very dry, eyes shifting to where his water jug was.

His bedside cabinet was illuminated with moonlight. _Odd_. And a note stood by his glass, written in Sherlock’s hand.

 

_Vatican Cameos. Don’t move._

 

John’s grip on the Webley tightened, his mind suddenly clear.

Soft footfalls came to him in the silence of the ward, accompanied by the breathing of the individual. The noise of the blackouts being taken down followed in a pause, a slight rattle of the wood as it caught the window latch, and sudden watchful silence.

John held his breath a moment, and counted. Lestrade’s soft snoring came from behind him, nothing from the direction of Sherlock’s bed, and the measured breathing was moving further down the ward. It had to be Moran.

 

“If I’m so boring then why did you bother?”

“Oh you weren’t boring to begin with! It was actually quite a fun distraction, pulling your strings – it still is now, watching you trying to think your way out, trying to save your friends. I like watching my puppets dance. Of course it’s all pointless – you know I’ll kill them if you don’t jump.”

“And then you’ll be bored again.”

Moriarty whistled. “Nice try, Sherlock. But no, I have other fish to fry. Other puppets to play with. Don’t think you’re anything special.”

“German puppets?”

Moriarty waggled a finger. “Ah, now that would be telling.”

“You would rather see your country burn than be bored.” The disgust was evident in Sherlock’s voice.

“Look who’s become all patriotic all of a sudden. Besides, it’s not my country – not really. Not according to my IRA friends in any case. Patriotism is a liability – rather like your friends – you’ll lose a lot through it.”

“I’d rather die than betray my country.”

“Oh, you will, Sherlock. Believe me. Odd what the gallows does to a person. Who’d have thought you’d grow a conscience. But all this is getting tiresome. It’s time to say goodbye.”

 

Moran checked his watch once more. Five minutes to go.

He took the revolver from his pocket, winding a cloth around the muzzle, and muffling it with a pillow. He didn’t doubt his employer would succeed, but habit made him prepare.

Beneath his blankets John was preparing as well. He shifted, an inch at a time, changing his position, slowly bringing the hammer of the gun back beneath his pillow until the safety was off.

 

Sherlock mounted the ledge once more, hands resting on the merlons to either side. _Save my country or save my friends? Save my country or save my friends? There has to be a solution._

Moriarty tutted. “Still thinking – always thinking. Busy little bee. Well this busy little bee got caught in a web. His time for thinking is over. There is no way you win in this, Sherlock.”

Sherlock slowly turned from the edge, hopping down and sauntering back towards Moriarty. “There’s always a way for me to win.” He smiled, nonchalant now.

Moriarty’s expression flickered. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you see you’ve given me exactly the piece I need to win this game of yours, _Jim_.” He smiled. “You.”

Moriarty’s expression cleared. “Ah, very clever Mr Holmes. Except for one thing. Moran is a remarkable marksman. Do you really want to gamble your friends’ lives on the off chance that he’ll miss you and hit me instead?” He shook his head. “I think not. The only way you win, is if you die.” He pulled out a pocket watch. “Twenty minutes past two, I only told Moran to wait until twenty one past. Go on then, off you pop.”

Sherlock turned, walking slowly back to the edge once more, one hand slipping into the inside folds of his dressing gown with the notebook, pushing it into a pocket.

“I need hardly say, if you’re the only one who comes down from this roof alive, they all die.”

Sherlock took in a deep breath, his feet hanging slightly over the edge. “I know.”

 

In the ward, John couldn’t help the tremble that shook him as the cold circle of the Webley’s muzzle was pressed to his temple. He was breathing hard. Death was coming. This was nothing new. He’d been here before. This time he wouldn’t be able to dodge the bullet, however.

His heart was racing, blood thumping in his ears loud enough to drown out the steady too-fast ticking of Moran’s watch as the second hand raced to complete its circuit and bring the minute hand down to twenty one past.

 

Sherlock gazed out at the darkness that was England, turned silver by the moonlight. “It’s a fine country, don’t you think?”

He could feel Moriarty inching closer to him, his impatience bubbling over. “Enough stalling, Sherlock. It’s becoming tiresome. No one likes a man who drags out his own death.”

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder as much was possible without turning his head. “I’m so glad you agree. I hope you’ll make good on your word.”

 

A very distant shout made John jump slightly, but Moran’s eyes were on the windows, and a split second later a shadowy body hurtled to the ground with a banal thud.

Moran was pressed against the glass, ensuring the body no longer moved, his hands already discarding the pillow and cloth around the revolver.

John was sitting up in his bed, the thought that Moran would notice once he turned around obliterated on the wave of the realisation that something had gone horribly wrong for Sherlock.

He leapt out of bed, the gun pointed at Moran’s chest. “Where is he?” his voice was loud enough that even Lestrade shifted, and turned over with a murmur.

Moran whipped around, eyes widening, then grinned, laughing. “It’s too late.” The gravel of his deep voice made his laugh more sinister than pleasant.

“You’re lying,” John advanced on the marksman, his arm steady, frowning. “Where is he?”

Moran slowly raised his hands, his own gun still in one. “I’m not lying. We both saw the body fall. You know he’s dead. You’d be dead if he weren’t. Be thankful for that.” Moran began to laugh again, deeply amused by the joke.

Unnerved, John’s eyes darted between Moran and the windows. He wasn’t close enough to them to see anything of the fallen body, and moving to a place where he could would probably spell death for himself.

Torn, John glared at Moran, whose shark-like grin widened. “If you’re going to take the shot, I’d do it before my employer comes down. He’s not bad with a gun.”

John began to snarl a response, but was interrupted as the door out to the garden crashed open.

Both men leapt to see who the intruder was, John’s gun lowering slightly, and Moran’s rising.

Laboured breathing filled the room, as a figure, battered and bloody dragged themselves in.

Sherlock rounded the corner of the bed at the end of the ward.

“You!”

“John!”

John had the briefest of moments to register Moran lifting his gun in his peripheral vision, pointing it at Sherlock, and then to react.

A shot rang out, starting Lestrade from his drunken torpor with a shout, and Moran crumpled to the floor.

 

Moriarty’s body lay crumpled on the lawns, a few feet away from the squashed bushes Sherlock had landed in. His open eyes stared up at the stars without seeing them, mouth agape, seemingly surprised at his demise.

 

*

 

Watson shut the book, glancing up at his old friend. He’d had the accounts of their adventures printed and bound in books, and a complete set lived on the shelves of Holmes’ Sussex Downs residence.

“Do you remember any of it, eh, Sherlock? The good old days?” he puffed on his pipe.

Holmes no longer smoked. He didn’t remember how to. “What’s that?” he asked. “Oh, yes. I remember her. The Woman. She lived in Bohemia, you know. I could tell by the mud on her skirts.”

“It was the King, the King of Bohemia, Holmes,” Watson gently reminded him.

“That’s what I said.” The retired consulting detective had changed a great deal over the years. He had not raced the streets of London nor traipsed the countryside for clues in a long time. His form, which had once been so filled with the rigours of life was now that of a bowed old man, mostly confined to a wheelchair. The once dark eyes were bright beneath his panama, but the glimmering mind behind them was no longer keen. Its presence might as well be hidden behind cataracts.

John sighed, gazing ruefully at the book. He had hoped, vainly, that reading accounts of their old adventures might help bring his old friend back out of the mists of his jumbled memories and deteriorating abilities, but he had read all the stories twice over in his many visits, and he was yet to see any indication that they had an effect.

“I still have her lithograph somewhere, you know.”

“Photograph,” John corrected automatically. He flipped through the pages. “You know, you never really told me how you managed to survive that fall. Lestrade swears you had some sort of device to help.”

“You ask a pertinent question at last, my dear Watson.”

The Doctor stared. He was back, it was him; Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective. “And?” he hardly dared speak for fear of derailing his friend.

“I had calculated the height of the building when we were in the garden and noted the position of the bushes planted around the foundations. The building was three floors high, although with great misfortune one might die from a fall of three meters. I did not get us all drunk beforehand simply to keep you and Lestrade asleep.” Holmes smiled lazily. “Alcohol acts as a muscle relaxant. It is our instinct to tense in such situations, and that can be a fatal mistake. So the alcohol ensured my body would be relaxed and limp, giving me a greater chance of survival. Then it was a case of ensuring my fall was broken by the bushes – I was more than willing to trade a few scratches for my life.”

“And how did you know Moriarty would die?”

“I didn’t. But when I wrestled him off the roof I took care to throw him further from the building. He was taken by surprise, his body would have locked up considerably. Physics killed him.” Holmes smiled modestly. “With a little careful planning.”

“I should say!”

Holmes fell silent. “I know, John.”

Something odd in his tone made John look at him.

His face was filled with an expression John had never seen before. “I know I’m not myself. My mind is stalked by shadows of the man I used to be. My memories are breaking up like bread given to ducks. All soggy and floating apart. The lights in the rooms are going out. I don’t remember the pathways through my mind palace.” Holmes gulped. “And I try to find my way through, and then get lost. I get stuck in rooms for weeks because I can’t see the door. …I’m trapped.”

Watson stared at his friend, pity mingling with his sorrow. That this should happen to Sherlock Holmes of all men was a cruel trick. “I’m here, old friend.” He patted Holmes’ liver-spotted hand. “I wish I could lead you out.”

“My dear Watson, we’re already outside! How did you manage to sneak up on me like that?” Holmes grasped Watson’s hand and wrung it heartily. “I see from the mud on your trousers you brought a case from Lestrade? That kind of mud is London mud. I’d know it anywhere.”

Watson clenched his jaw to stop the hiccup of disbelief that wanted to come out at his friend’s abrupt descent, and summoned a smile. “Of course I have.”

 

Later, when Holmes had forgotten about the pseudo-case John had made up to satisfy his questions, they trundled about the garden, Holmes talking knowledgably about his bees and the flowers, offering pots of honey for the third time that day.

He insisted on turning the wheels of his chair himself, but in truth he didn’t possess the strength to in the long grass, and Watson walked behind, pushing slowly so his friend’s fingers weren’t caught in the spokes.

The evening sun grew steadily hotter as the sun fell until the heat began to ease with the waning of the light, and it was time for Watson to leave.

“Let’s get you back indoors, then.”

“No, Watson; I’ll stay in the garden a little longer. It’s a balmy evening.”

It was true, so Watson parked the wheelchair a little way from the patio. “Good bye, Holmes. I’ll see you next time.”

Holmes reached for Watson’s hand. “Good bye, John.”

Watson stared into his friend’s eyes for a long moment, a flicker of his old self in them once more, then smiled and turned to leave.

“Oh, and Watson,” Holmes called over his shoulder, and Watson paused.

“Yes?”

“Do shave that ridiculous moustache off.”

Watson stared, then laughed, Holmes’ chuckle coming to him across the lawn.

 

When Watson sat down to breakfast a letter was waiting for him beside his plate. The hand was familiar, although he couldn’t quite place it, and when he slit open the envelope there was only a single sheet of card inside.

 

_Goodbye, my old friend._

 

Mary noticed her husband’s suddenly pale face.

“John, dear? Are you all right? What’s happened?”

John took a deep breath. “Sherlock Holmes has fallen.” He pushed his chair back, getting up to leave the room.

“Where are you going?”

John paused. “To shave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So once again, I'd love to know what you think! :) Any comments or observations will be invaluable, even if it's just saying what you liked best, or didn't like, or what you found confusing - don't hold back :)
> 
> I'm especially curious about the ending and whether or not the flash forward to Old!Holmes and Old!Watson gelled well. I adore a sad ending like that, and it was partly inspired by the Old Holmes and Watson sketch that "That Mitchell and Webb Look" did. If you haven't seen it, I thoroughly recommend watching - all the feels.
> 
> Thanks for reading! :D


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